Seven Hour War: The First Hour
by Manly Stump
Summary: In the spirit of Half-Life, another protagonist comes into the limelight: Chris Harris gets thrust into the Seven Hour War. Writing will resume when I get some reviews!
1. Chapter 1

I woke in my bunk, completely disorientated. Clasping my right hand to my head as my left arm supported my torso; I tried to come to terms with where I was. Cognitive thought was being marred by a particularly sinister hangover. As the blurriness of my vision eased, I could begin to make out the familiar grey walls and bunks of my resident barracks.

We had had a heavy drinking session last night to celebrate completing advanced combat training. Several of my comrades were still in their bunks, either fast asleep or groaning awake, much like I was. Marks was sitting on his bunk with a set of cards dealt on the bed. He was clearly in the middle of a game of poker, which he usually played with Tyrone. For some reason though, Tyrone was not at the bunk, but rather staring out the window on the other side of the barracks. He looked deeply concerned about something outside, which was beyond my vision from where I was lying.

Then Tyrone gulped, at which point I spoke up. "What the hell are you looking at?" I inquired.

Before he could respond, Marks appended "Yeah T, I thought we were playing cards here!" to my question. Evidently, they had been in the middle of a game when Tyrone had noticed something out the window and deserted the game to investigate.

"No..." Tyrone responded, "I don't believe we are." His voice sounded shaky, as if whatever had held his attention so rigidly had terrified him to his very core.

He had now gained the attention of Marks and me, as well as Doherty, who had only just come to. Doc (as he was colloquially known to most of our platoon) was in no position to stand up, but Marks and I walked over to join Tyrone, and see what the hell was going on out there. I was still about three or four feet away from the wall, but I could make out a large tear in the sky. The blue Arizona sky had been blended with a dark purple vortex-looking shape. An eerie green lightning sparked around the tear, which seemed to evaporate any of the small clouds that dared to go near it.

"What the fuck is that?" Marks queried. I had to assume he wasn't expecting any of us to know the answer.

_It looks like a temporal rip or something_, I mused, offering my best layman's guess. "It's the damnedest thing".

Doc was now pulling himself to, seemingly the fourth man of our platoon to wake after the big celebrations last night. Intrigue was a virtue and a curse which affected all of us, and Doc simply couldn't just lie there without finding out what was going on. Hangover, be damned!

Unfortunately, Doc was the sort of person who expected everybody else to think just like him. So as he made his way towards where we were, he tried to shake the sleeping soldiers awake to allow them to see it too.

He didn't shake them too vigorously however and unsuccessfully managed to wake even a single one of them. By the time Doc came up to join us, Marks and I were still in the shock state that Tyrone was in before. Tyrone had developed beyond shock, and moved away from the window to look around. As Tyrone stepped away, Marks, who had been standing behind in between me and Tyrone, came in to take his place. Then Doc came along and stood on the spot that Marks had just vacated.

"Holy fuck", Doherty exclaimed. "Am I still drunk or what?"

"I sure as shit wanna be I can tell you." It soon became apparent that Tyrone was looking for a leftover vodka bottle with some contents left. There were a few bottles strewn about the barracks, but most of which were emptied or even smashed. One bottle was under Simon's pillow, and was still bosoming his head. Without any sign of compassion for the sleeping Simon, Tyrone yanked the bottle out from beneath the limp pillow. His delight at the sound of liquid splashing around in the bottle quickly diminished at the sight of a sodden cigarette butt that had been pushed into the bottle.

While Tyrone rummaged around for a good bottle of vodka, me, Marks and Doc continued to gape at that bizarre "storm" shape in the sky. The vortex contained within its circular form seemed to quicken and lull; as the patch of sky it dominated expanded and contracted in rhythm. The green lightning began to stretch further across the sky, and steadily increased in number until they were more than one per second.

The storm's eccentric show had cast a powerful trance over the three of us. I frequently had to force a blink when I felt my eyes going dry, because my eyes weren't blinking of their own accord. Then suddenly, our attention was freed by Tyrone's excited shout of "A-ha!"

He had found himself a bottle of vodka, sans cigarette ends, and he looked as proud as when he had completed the training course the day before. "Oh man, I need this!" he said contentedly.

Just as he brought the tip of the bottle to his mouth and the spirit began trickling out, Marks interrupted with "Er mate, I think that's the bottle I spat in."

Recoiling in disgust, Tyrone propelled the bottle towards the floor in front of him and watched as shards of glass cascaded across the centre of the room.

"Fuck!" Although none of the vodka-phlegm mix had touched his mouth, Tyrone felt the need to wipe his sleeve over it just in case. "God damn it, Jason!"

"I wouldn't have told him!" Doc chuckled to himself. Tyrone recovered his self and moved back to the window. Just as the four of us glanced out of the window for the first time as a group, a blinding white flash scorched our retinas. I flicked my head round in a millisecond, squeezing my eyelids together as tightly as they'd ever been.

Once the white had subsided, and my eyes had acclimatised back to normal lighting I reopened my eyes. Another vortex had appeared, on the northern part of the sky. This tear was much further away, but closer to the horizon. The newly formed tear in the sky was probably smaller as well as being further away, and had none of the green lightning that the old one had.

We all watched the new vortex's nativity with jaw-swaying amazement. The contrast between bright and dark colours fluctuated as the two blended effortlessly together and back again. This went on for an unknown length of time, but the fear and intrigue that had been weighing on me all this time was numbed away by an overwhelming feeling of wonder and beauty. I'd give anything to have had that feeling for longer, but it was not meant to be.

The high spirits brought about by the second vortex were fiercely cast from us by what felt like an earthquake. The barracks, and everything (and everyone) inside were jolted, and all soldiers who had remained sleeping were taken from their slumber. Those that slept in top bunks rolled right off them and onto the hard concrete floor. Finn and Eddie Coughlin in particular awoke with a cry. All the soldiers who had until then been asleep woke at that point, some more vigorously than others. Once they had woken however they all laid there in the same manner: caressing their heads, or in the case of those who had fallen, their various bumps and bruises.

Of course it was obvious it hadn't been an earthquake; that would have been too much of a coincidence to happen on the same morning of these freakish appearances in the sky. And in fact the first of the two vortexes had all but ceased turning. As it eased into a stationary condition a hundred or so forks of the green lightning emerged, and with it an alien-looking craft. The under-side of the vessel looked like a dark grey metal crate, but the top half looked like a giant crustacean. Its callous skin was coloured everything from off-white to a dark green-brown.

The peculiar vessel had numerous large protrusions from its upper body, facing front, back and bottom. The rear pair of "limbs" propelled the craft forward, and the front pair was just flailing around, not appearing to be performing any function. The other six or so limbs were strongly grasped around the bottom half of the vessel, suggesting it was in fact not a part of it.

This monstrous, bizarre spacecraft shook side to side as it steered through the vortex, and then eased itself into a straight direction. It first began to head west, remaining at a reasonable altitude, but all of a sudden it changed course, as if something had taken the pilot's attention. Now it was heading more or less directly towards our base, and instead of keeping high up it was pulling downwards as a plane would do when its engine had blown.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Then the sirens came on. Those soldiers who were still in a sedentary position were stirred into pulling themselves to a more alert state. Marks, Doc and Tyrone continued to watch the giant crab-like spacecraft as it loomed down towards the fort. My hangover had gotten the better of me, and I badly needed to rehydrate myself before I could concentrate properly. I slouched over towards my bunk, and cautiously edged my fingers past the bunk to the chest at the foot. I opened the chest and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade. I've always hated the taste of Gatorade, but couldn't find anything that worked better for curing hangovers. At least, I couldn't find anything that I would be allowed to bring into our barracks.

I pulled the lid off the bottle, and squeezed a healthy shot into my mouth. Being stuck in my chest had made it lukewarm, but being in the forces I'd grown accustomed to losing such luxuries as refrigerated drinks. I swallowed the large mouthful with a bite, and passed the bottle onto Tyrone, who was never shy about mooching off of the rest of us. Most of the others had gotten sick of his sponging attitude, if they'd ever put up with it at all. Personally, I don't let it bother me. It bothers me slightly, but aside from that we get on well.

As Tyrone pulled the bottle to his mouth, Marks called out over the blistering sirens:

"Oh shit, here comes _Penison_" Peterson was our sergeant, much despised by everyone here. I doubt any corporals really enjoyed their sergeant's company, but Peterson was nothing less than a sadist. The moniker Penison had stemmed from a joke that went around long ago that Peterson had such a violent temper because he had a "penile shortcoming". Once, Dominic, the guy who slept in the bunk below mine called him Penison, unaware that he was in fact within earshot. Legend amongst the boys was that Peterson went into Dominic with both fists flying.

All the boys rushed around to get in their respective positions. We had to stand at the foot of our bunks next to the chests that laid there. Marks sprinted across the room to get to his bunk, and in one fluid motion swiped his arm over the bed, knocking all the cards and chips onto the floor. The guys who were still in bed jumped out of their skins, and many tripped over their covers trying to get up as quickly as possible. In retrospect it was daft being so desperate to get into position for Peterson, with whatever the hell was going on today I'd have been surprised if he'd give a damn if we were standing in front of our bunks or lying on them. But Peterson was the kind of man who scared you so much that we didn't have time to think things over.

The door to the barracks burst open to reveal Peterson's giant frame in its stead. He normally stood in the doorway for a moment or two as part of his intimidation routine, but he power-walked in as soon as the door had opened.

"Alright you maggots; drop your cocks and grab your socks. We got an unidentified craft coming out of the ether, and it seems to be heading straight for us. Reports have come in of these portal storms appearing all over the world, so we can only assume more of these weird spaceships will follow. Now I'm sure you chicken shits are all hungover, but I don't rightly give a..."

His big speech was cut short by a loud crash outside. Peterson marched over to the window, but none of the boys dared to move, athough many swivelled their necks round. I was fortunate enough to have a clear view of what had happened without the need to move my head at all. The crash came from a series of projectiles from the spacecraft, which was now very close indeed. At the time the shots came down, they were in my peripheral vision, so I could not see them in very much detail. Once the shots had reached their destination I could see everything clearly. The shots fired by the spacecraft landed in the roof of Campbell Hall, shattering the surrounding walls into thousands of pieces of brick and concrete.

As soon as the damage of Campbell Hall had been assessed by all of us in the barracks, the craft had U-turned around and was heading back towards us. I could see an uncertainty in Peterson's eyes, as if he felt out of his depth. I'd never known him to be unsure of himself since the first time we met.

"Okay ladies", he began; sounding slightly croaky. "We gotta nail this son o' bitch before they take us first. Get your asses over to the munitions huts and DON'T DAWDLE! You don't want this motherfucker getting you in the back when you're running round unarmed. Now go!"

You'd better believe we didn't dawdle. We all knew how high the chances were of getting hit by one of those shots. Marks was the first to sprint towards the door. His agility had always amazed me; usually people with smaller bodies are faster runners, and Marks was anything but petite, but boy could he move. I quickly grabbed another bottle of Gatorade from my chest, and was quick to join him. Doc, Tyrone and Finn, being the more alert of us shortly followed. Coughlin, one of the poor sods shaken out of his bunk earlier, had twisted his leg in the fall, and now ran with a limp.

"Shake it off, Corporal. I ain't having any dead stragglers on my conscience." said the Serge ironically, as we all knew he had as much conscience as a politician.

Eddie shook his right leg to loosen it up, and then pressed his foot into the ground and wobbled the knee. This ludicrous-looking nonsense caused him to fall to the back of the line, as the rest of us piled out of the barracks and onto one of the base's wide tarmac roads. My dog tag hit against my collarbone as I sprinted across the road, towards the field that separated us from the munitions hut.

I still had my second bottle of Gatorade in my hand, so I decided to pull out a large swig from it and pass it around the men. This inevitably slowed me down slightly, but I naïvely figured the burst of energy would cover my losses. I clicked the cap back in place and tossed it to Marks, who pulled the cap off with his teeth, and then squirted the juice directly into his mouth without touching his lips to the bottle.

I just touched the field when I realised that I hadn't seen the space craft since we left the barracks. Just at that moment I heard a shot from behind me, which came right up to us and shot into the grass to the left of Doc. Another few shots soon followed, most of them only just falling short of taking one of us down.

Then out of nowhere, Peterson called out: "Spread out you chicken shits, don't be such a big target."

As always, we obliged to our Sergeant's demands with acquiesce, except without the usual amount of hatred. Marks and I, still taking the lead of the troop, kept running forwards. Tyrone and Finn took a left turn, and slowed slightly down to avoid tripping over our feet. The rest of the soldiers were out of my view, but I'm sure they found a way to disperse without holding themselves up. As we ran, the ship came round to our right, and started firing again. One shot came out and landed directly in front of me. Out of shock, I halted out of instinct, and swerved to the right, picking up speed again.

We were now closing in towards the munitions huts, were within 30 yards of the nearest one, when the craft loomed down close to the ground, further down the road. I turned around to see where it was, and could see the craft as it eased to the tarmac, but it never seemed to actually make contact. Instead it levitated, rocking gently side to side about a foot above the ground. The metallic crate sort of container at the bottom of the craft began to open up. I badly wanted to see what was going to come out of it, but I knew I couldn't carry on running and looking round, so again I turned to face the front. As we neared the armoury, we came into one group again. Since the ship had docked down and stopped shooting there seemed no need to keep spread out. Marks was the first one to the door of the armoury, and burst through it with minimal effort. We all rushed in, and Reynolds, being the slowest in our platoon, closed the door behind him.

"Reynolds, you keep a look out boy." Peterson ordered, his voice had returned to its staple authoritative manner. As he had been commanded, Charlie stayed by the door as the rest of us went to a weapon store room at the back of the hut.

"What do you see, Charlie?" inquired Mike Finn. I was eager to hear what he said, but carried on to the weapon room.

"Nothing yet, don't know what's keeping the bastards." came the reply.

We knew the door to the weapon room was locked, so when we reached the door we had to wait for Peterson to come to the front of the group. The sergeant banged on the door and called out "Open up, Gus"

'Gus' as Peterson called him was in charge of weapon distribution in the base. His name was actually Terry Norton, and nobody knew why Peterson insisted on calling him Gus, but no one was curious enough to ask him. Before two seconds had elapsed Peterson banged on the door again, this time slightly harder. The key clicked in the door, and Gus, the portly security officer turned the handle and eased the door open.

"Easy, I don't run as fa..." Gus began to say, but he was opening the door too slowly for Peterson, who shoved the door and Gus out of his way.

"Cram it, Gus" Peterson said. "Have you seen the damn thing out there?"

"Sure I have, you think I give two fucks?"

"Ah, I don't have time for you. Get out my way, fat-ass." Gus was the quintessential 'count the days to retirement' security guard. He was a surly, quick-witted, slow-moving ball of middle-aged spread. As much as he detested Peterson, and everyone for that matter, his lethargic state overruled his desire to put Peterson down, and he just waddled back to his chair and picked up a half-eaten doughnut.

"We only got two RPG's men, who wants the honour?"

Never one to conceal his penchant for carnage, Marks marched forward and stretched up to collect the first RPG launcher. Finn, who was slightly less forthright than Marks, simply put his hand up. Peterson plucked the second launcher off its hook and handed it to Finn. Marks and Finn left the weapon storage area and headed towards Reynolds.

"Oi", Peterson interjected. Finn turned back just in time to get his hand up and catch the M4 Carbine being hurled at his face. "Give that to Reynolds. And ask him if he's seen anything yet."

Finn went out to join Marks and Charlie at the door to the hut. Meanwhile, Peterson handed the rest of the Carbines to me as I dispersed them to the rest of the troops.

"Well, we'd best get out there and kill 'em I suppose." Doc said, unusually vocal for the most timid one of our group.

"Right you are, corporal. You saw what them aliens did to Campbell. They could squash this hut in a second."

We began to head back to join the others outside when Reynolds burst through the door to the weapons storage. He looked confused, like he was working out long division in his head.

"Serge..." he said. "They... they're human."


End file.
